Daisy Darker

by Alice Feeney

My life was never the same after I died a second time because that’s when everyone knew for sure what I think they already suspected: that I was broken.

Technically, I’d already died eight times before I was thirteen, and if I’d been a cat, I would have been concerned. But I was a little girl, and I had bigger things than death to worry about.

Death is a life-changing deadline, and I’m forever in debt to everyone who helped me outstay my welcome.

Nana said she chose to borrow my name for the story so that—one way or another—I could live forever.

Pity fades with age, hate is lost and found, but guilt can last a lifetime.

Nana always preferred books to people, and her wish to be left alone with them has been mostly granted, and almost guaranteed, by living in such an inaccessible place.

The unexplored oceans of our hearts and minds are normally the result of a lack of time and trust in the dreams we dreamed as children. But adults forget how to believe that their dreams might still come true.

Doesn’t everyone wonder who they might have been if they weren’t who they were?

“My dear, I’d rather be dead than normal.”

‘The future is a promise we can still choose whether to keep. The past is a promise we’ve already broken.’

Caring about other people is more important than being curious about them.

“We all get broken sometimes, and if you can help fix someone, you should always try,”

“Everyone you know is both good and bad, it’s part of being human.”

Monsters don’t always hide in the dark. Some walk around in broad daylight, happy to be seen by anyone foolish enough to look in their direction.

Books saved me, and I ran away inside the stories I read as a child. They were the only place where I could run, and swim, and dance without fear of falling and not being able to get back up. Books were full of friends and adventures, whereas my real childhood was cold, and dark, and horribly lonely.

I’m grateful to still be here, but death has been part of my life for so long, I worry about it all of the time. Our future is just our past in the making.

That night, when my parents put me to bed—together but apart—and turned out the light, I saw a galaxy of luminous stars on my bedroom ceiling. Rose had used her precious glow-in-the-dark stickers to decorate my room instead of her own. “Night night, pipsqueak,” she whispered, standing in my doorway. “Why?” I whispered. “Because you deserve to see the stars just as much as the rest of us.”